


the price of pride is whatever your willing to pay

by Michaelangelo



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (beezs swaps pronouns more often then i swap iced coffee brands), Abuse, Broken Bones, Established Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Implied/Referenced Torture, PTSD, Referenced Bondage, Torture, Trauma, Unhealthy Power Dynamics, Violence, i didnt give this a very effective proof read because i gave up sorry, i endorse none of this, re traumatisation, referenced hair cutting, referenced teeth pulling, returning to abusers, so much of what happens is unhealthy, traumatised!crowley, triggered!crowley, unhealthy everything if im honest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:46:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24129922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michaelangelo/pseuds/Michaelangelo
Summary: time and trauma have warped crowleys understanding of hell, and when something triggers his memories of what was going on down there, he see's it through a skewed perspective and he returns back to the arms of his abuser, searching for something
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub/Dagon (Good Omens)
Kudos: 8





	the price of pride is whatever your willing to pay

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. please read the tags for triggers, i tagged it as well as i could with whatever i think i might be triggering, but if you see something i missed, ill add it,, we all have different triggers, so what might be bad for you, might not even register as a potential trigger for me and vice versa, so just a friendly message and ill do it  
> 2\. im really going through it, and this a vent peice about me wanting to walk right back into my abuse, writing this was cathartic for me, so hopefully reading it can help you in some way too  
> 3\. i love you?? stay safe??

“Crowley!’ Aziraphale yelled as he stormed into the demon's apartment, his bird-song voice barely holding his anger but Crowley picked it up anyway.

“What’s wrong?” He moved quickly with concern into the hallway to see the angel, but was met with a hand wrapping around his throat and slamming him into the wall. The force of the impact made him cough hard, and the unrelenting fingers wrapping around his neck made him feel like he was suffocating even without his need for air. It was purely psychological, but the feeling of being trapped, and suddenly in danger, made his body feel the need to defend itself and he started to panic, even if breathing was all for show, there was no air in his lungs and that was all he knew. His hands came up and grabbed the arm in front of him but he couldn’t pull it away, as the angel would always be stronger then his demon counterpart even if he was the weaker man.

“Aziraphale? What are you doing?” The sound struggled to make it way out of his mouth, and he coughed, deep and painfully from his chest. 

“Is this what you want?!” The angel yelled, squeezing more tightly. Something was in his free hand that Crowley couldn’t make out through his confused haze, although he barely had the presence to care.

“What-” He tugged hard at Aziraphale’s wrist, trying to give himself enough room to speak, “What do you mean?!”

“This!” He held up what looked like an envelope and waved it in front of Crowley, before throwing it onto the ground.

“What is that?” 

“This!” He clicked his fingers and his hand was filled with old polaroids, the envelope now a tattered mess on the ground where it lay.

Crowley had to squint hard to see what the images were of, but the subject made the colour drain from his skin when he finally figured it out.

“ _ Oh _ .”

“ _ ‘Oh!’ _ Yeah! When were you going to tell me?”

“Aziraphale… That was a long time ago.” 

“Is this what you meant when you said I was ‘enough of a bastard’.”

“Angel-”

“Don't ‘angel’ me, Crowley!” He yelled, punctuation the demon’s name by pulling him off the wall and slamming him back into it, holding him higher so his feet were barely touching the ground, and he was caught floundering in Aziraphale’s grip.

“You know that’s not what I meant!” His hands clawed at the angels fingers, desperately trying to pry them away from his neck.

“Well what did it mean then? Because it’s clear you need something a lot less holy then I can provide! Or do you really think I’m that bad?”

“Azi- Aziraphale! Please stop! Those pictures,” He looked to the photos that Aziraphale held in his fists and could see them now as clear as day, all of them different, but none of them good, “I was in an entirely different world! Hell isn’t a kind place!” 

He was weak on his own feet as the angel placed him back on the ground, softening his hold on the demon's throat, but leaving his hand there as a warning, and an open threat.

“Was this… Was this your punishment?” He asked softly, suddenly feeling very guilty about how he read the situation, the layers of emotion grappling together, trying to untangle the web they had formed.

“Not exactly.” 

“Then what was it?” There was a sadness to his voice, his fight seemed to be slipping away into something new, something worse.

“It was my reward.” He looked at the photos, needing to cast his eyes anywhere besides the angel. “It was how Lord Beezlebub trained me. And Dagon. He hurt us, so much, and so harshly, and so often, but we would’ve taken anything for her, just for the chance to have her praise us. He offered us the only kindness there was to be had in hell, and when you're fresh out of heaven, that's the one thing you miss the most.”

“Crowley… I’m so sorry, I didn’t know.” But the conflicted feelings inside the angel still fought, and his hand still held the demon's neck firmly.

He gently took the photos from the angel and looked them over. He wasn’t ashamed of them, or who he had been when they were taken, but he wasn’t proud of the way they had come into Aziraphale’s life. He should have told him earlier, or he should have done more to make sure these would never exist. It was his fault either way, if he had’ve just been better for his Lord, then these photos would’ve never existed in the first place.

“I’m sorry you had to see these.”

The picture at the top of the pile caught the light, and glittered cruelly at him. His own pale skin almost glowing in the dark of the throne room, his back covered in bloody welts that were the clear and crisp lashes of a whip, his wings proud and red with burns as he sat, comfortably straddling the demon lord's hips.

“Crowley.” The angel looked at the pictures held between them, his eyes catching glimpses of his demon, arms bound behind his back with his hair, so long and radiant then, tied to his ankles, his neck and chest arching forward painfully.

“That’s not what you want anymore though , is it?” He didn't even try to hide the concern in his voice as he watched the way Crowley thumb through the photos.

A new picture moved to the top as Crowley shuffled through them, almost craving to see them, to remember them. It was him, cradled in Beezlebub’s arms as he cut the demon's beautiful locks, and it hurt Aziraphale to know what had happened to his demon's hair.

“Sometimes it is. Sometimes I think about being there again, going back to her. It was so intoxicating, the sort of praise Beez would give us. I know if I went back there-” Crowley trailed off, distant and unfocused as he skimmed through the photos.

He looked so strong in his pain. The things he could endure, for no reason at all. He could take so much and still ache for another hit. It took him everything to get out of there, and sometimes it took even more to stop him from sauntering back into hell and crawling his way into the demon's lap. She would take him as well, he always knew there was a place for him there should he want it.

“Crowley? Are you alright? I’m sorry I brought this up, I was just so confused and hurt.” Aziraphale spoke, his hand finally moving from the demon's neck, and up to hold his cheek, realising the old fires he risked re-igniting in the other, but not seeing that spark that was already taking hold.

“It’s okay angel. I know you didn’t mean to hurt me by it, you never could, not really.” 

“Crowley, if you don’t want to talk about it, I understand. But please, if you ever do, tell me. And if you ever want to be back there, call me, okay? I'll come over, I’ll be here, you don't need them anymore.”

“I know, angel.” He looked away from the images in his hands, stealing a final look at his own form, laying bloodied and bruised in a puddle of himself, before meeting Aziraphale’s eyes. “Thank you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, I swear.” He leant into Aziraphale’s hand, and smiled softly at him, “But I have to know where you got these.”

“They arrived at my door this morning, no sender address, I didn’t even see the delivery person. Do you think Beezlebub would send these?”

“I’m not sure.” He looked to the images again, and saw himself crying, his mouth gagged with dirty rope, and his skin shiny with sweat.

He remembered that day well. 

The stink of hell was still so clear to him, and the screaming in the distance was still so crisp in his mind. She had wrapped filthy ropes around his mouth and let the tails hang in drooping bows behind his head. He didn’t resist when she threw him against the ground, and whipped him to a bloodied pulp. He didn't care that he was on display for anyone who wanted to see, and he cared even less that she was ripping him to pieces with her bare hands. Praise for him rang heavy in his head, so loud with her words that he could hardly hear his own screaming.

He had been so good for her, and she had been so kind to him.

“Do you think Dagon would do something like this?”

“No, she’s not the ‘hands on’ type. She wouldn’t stir anything. What about someone on your side? Gabriel?”

“How would he get these?”

“Him and Beez are close these days, very close, apparently.”

After that, Aziraphale spent the night with Crowley, talking and eventually drinking, and finally fucking, before they both fell asleep in his black satin sheets. It was cool on their skin and Crowley nuzzled deeper into the angel to warm his cold blood, but still he woke up shivering and lethargic.

The angel slept soundly beside him, which was rare and sweet when it happened, but Crowley didn't care to stay and enjoy it. He slipped silently out of the bed, the chill forcing him into his living room where he wasted a minor miracle lighting a fire. It crackled loudly enough to make him close the bedroom door, before it slowly lulled into a quiet chatter. 

It reminded him of the constant mutterings of hell, a thing he barely thought of anymore, and the smell of smoke and burning wood suddenly seemed to be all around him, and he couldn't shake the images of hell that were suddenly flashing before him. It had been so long since he had even thought of that wretched place, and now he could hardly think of anything else. 

His hands found their way back to the photos and he looked them over once more, now in the privacy of his own head.

Each image brought back such visceral memories, he could almost taste the blood Beez would make him cough up for her. She loved how easy it was to make him bleed, and how well he contrasted with the bruisable, Dagon. He saw a few with both of them, tied kneeling before their Lord, bloodied and bruised, and both of them flushed with pride.

God how he missed being proud.

It had been eons since he had put even an ounce of effort into anything, apathy, hopelessness, and a decent lack of motivation had seen to that. He still did his job, and often he took the time to have fun with it, even putting in what he would consider ‘actual work’ on occasion, but it was never something that he felt accomplished in. 

But Beez, she made him feel pride. He would preen for her, and yearn for her. He grew strong and pliant and witty for her. She made him try and he craved that. 

He looked at the door across the room; just inside his bedroom there lay a perfect angel, eager to have him back, and proud to have him by his side, but it wasn't enough. He wanted to be proud of himself, he wanted others to be proud of what he was capable of, not a baseless and affectionate pride. That was worthless to him.

He clicked his fingers loudly, suddenly uncaring if he woke the angel, and was immediately dressed in his standard full-black. It fit his definition of tidy, and always felt just formal enough in a pinch (which he often found himself in). Standing up, he brushed the nonexistent wrinkles from his shirt and sank through the fiery ground into hell, at least partially aware that it was a foolish thing to do, but far more aware that he didn't care.

After falling a short distance through fire and rubble, he found himself landing a small walk from Beezlebub’s throne room. The demons that packed the walkways stepped aside as he moved through them, not out of respect for his rank like they did for some, but out of fear for his unearned power. All of hell and enough of the heavens knew his relationship with the demon prince and the wise feared that a little. Nobody knew the kind of sway he held in the grand scheme of all things, but he was to blame for whatever happened with the war, and he was willing to walk right into the Lord's hands, unafraid of the prospect of being punished for it.

He pushed open the throne room doors, uncaring to knock, too committed to what he wanted to dare pause and think. If he had knocked and waited, and sought appropriate counsel with the demon prince, he would have turned on his heels and slithered back into his bed, with his angel none the wiser, and come morning they would have returned to his bookstore and drunk wine and moved past all this. But he hadn't, and they wouldn’t.

“Crowley?” Beezlebub hummed from her throne, “To what do I owe the dizpleasure?”

“Oh, the displeasure shall be all mine.” He replied with an air of confidence as he walked far too close to her and knelt at her feet.

It was a sign of submission, not of manners, but it was all the same in the context he was offering. He had been trained well, of which they were both proud, and he wanted to show that. There was that need in him, still bubbling, if not close to boiling, that forced him to go to her, to have her prove his worth in the only way that seemed to matter.

She knew what he was capable of and she had always pushed him just right, until he ached and glowed with the smile of achievement and effort.

Her hand found its way into his fiery hair and yanked it back, forcing his back to bend and his chest to open.

“What do you want, Crowley. It'z not like you to come crawling back here, at leazt not without a very good reazon.”

“I need to feel pride.” He answered, fighting to speak louder than a whisper through the tightness of his throat. 

“Aren’t you proud enough already, after you lozt the boy, and ruined our chance at the war? Or what about your angel, aren't you proud of that biblical monztrosity that you call a relationship? Aren't you proud of the way you betray your kind, time and time again?” She spat the questions at him, throwing his onto his back and kneeling over him, her knee resting on his chest. 

“Nothing comes close to the pride I feel when I please you.” He admitted, uncaring and unashamed of his desire. 

“You're pathetic.” She said, but smiled down at him. 

“Make me better?” He looked up at her, eyes filled with the need to please. 

“Why would I do that?” She asked, letting her knee dig harshly into his chest.

“Because I know who I am, and I know you play favourites.” 

“And what makez you think you're ztill in my good gracesz” She asked, moving to straddle his hips.

“You spent too long on me, to just throw me away.” He answered, self assured but not smugly, as he raised his hands to rest beside his head, almost asking her to pin his wrists to the concrete, but he was sending a different message. He was showing her his worth, acknowledging the move she had made with appreciation, but also keeping his hands away from her, knowing he couldn't touch her without permission.

“I must say, I'm not sure how I feel about your newfound confidenze, Crowley.”

“My Lord-” He trailed off, unsure what to say that would be worth anything. If she wanted him to change, he would do it in a heartbeat. He would reform everything about himself for even a drop of her approval, and they both knew it well.

“Finish your zentence.” She ordered, wanting to see him flounder for just a second.

“My Lord, I'm sorry if my confidence isn't in your favour.”

“Shut up, Crowley. You used to have more bite about you, what happened to that demon? The demon I had to fight with?” She teased, leaning forward, hands pressing into his lower ribs, painfully holding her weight as she whispered cruelly to him.

And as he opened his mouth, presumably to speak, she lifted her weight and slammed it into his ribs, hopping like a fox and breaking them. The loud crunching sound came first, as ribs on both sides cracked under her hands, followed by his cries, muffled by the pain of breathing.

She climbed off of his hips and left him on the floor, rolling slowly onto his side and curling in on himself. 

“You used to be so much more interesting.” She looked down at him, gently rolling him over with her foot, pushing him back onto his back for no reason other than to hear him whine.

“I'm sorry, Lord Beezlebub. I'll do better.” He wheezed, crawling his way back into his knees, trying his best to sit with proper posture but unable to fight the pained curve from his back. His muscles refused to let him do anything other than hunch defensively over himself, but that wasn't going to stop him from trying. 

“Your lucky I like watching you ztruggle zo much,” Beezlebub said, suddenly holding his face in her small hand, crushing his cheeks against his teeth until they bled into his mouth, “or else I would have broken the rest of your bones just for speaking out of turn.”

He gazed up at her, eyes lidded with pain, and knew she truly meant the threat. She had a soft spot for the crunch of bones, and couldn't help how eager she was to break them. Crowley considered himself lucky to have left hell with his original fangs still intact, given the rest of his teeth weren’t offered such mercy. He was sure she still had some of them, tucked away in the pockets of her old jackets, nearly forgotten, save for the bloody stains on the floor, marking the places she pulled them from.

Beezlebub let go of his face, slowly dragging her hand down his jawline, before she pulled away and began walking towards her throne, gesturing for him to follow. It was a sharp motion, two fingers pointing down, then forwards. He was to crawl, and he did, happy to follow a command and show his training wasn’t lost to him.

The concrete was hard and cold, and his jeans did little to soften the way his boney knees crushed into it as he followed her. She sat down and immediately placed her feet on his back, forcing him to remain on all 4’s while she sank back into her throne.

“What happened to you, Crowley?” She mused, smiling at the demon beneath her feet, and buzzing her way contentedly through her words.

He looked at her and she nodded once, confirming the question was intended to be answered.

“Domestic life, Lord Beezlebub. It’s so numbing.”

“You know, you probably played a hand in making it zooo?” 

“I know, my lord, and now I am trying to deal with those consequences.”

“Are you feeling guilty about it?” Beezlebub asked, genuine curiosity sparked.

“I don’t think so, in fact, I think it could be quite the opposite. I look at it all, and what it does, and it makes me think that I could do better. I don’t think I’ve put effort into anything in years, because it won't be enough to make me proud anymore. But this,” He looked around the dirty cement room and then to the demon prince, tracking their legs as far as his eyes could, “this makes me feel pride. This, I am good at. This is something I can do better than so many others. You could beat me to death, and I wouldn’t tell you to stop, just to prove how strong I am. But I don’t feel that pride towards anything else.”

“Crowley, you’re-”

A crisp and distinct knock at the door cut her off, one that even now Crowley could identify as his old counterparts hand.

“Come in, Dagon.” Beezlebub called out in a much cleaner voice, her hum all but silenced, as she stepped heavily onto Crowley's back. Her feet crushed his already broken bones, and bruised his already purple back, taking a cruel length of time before she jumped off, and walked to the door to meet the approaching demon. His knees cried out and he hissed through his teeth to keep his split tongue in his cursed mouth, but he remained silent, like a good demon should.

Crowley moved slowly back into his waiting position, joints thanking him as he moved to kneel, and rested his weight on his heels, slowly stacking his bones together and trying to sit upright. 

“Is that?” He caught Dagon asking as she looked over at him.

“Crowley, the traitor? Yes, yes it is. Do you want to say ‘hello’ to your old playmate before this meeting?”

“May I?”

“I wouldn't offer for nothing, dear.”

‘Dear?’ Crowley thought to himself as she walked over, and stood before him, leg so close to his face that he took it as an order, and nuzzled into it, smooshing his face into her thigh.

“Oh Serpent, where are your scales?” She asked as she stroked his hair, her iridescent skin glittering with a demonic pride that his could too. 

“Hidden in shame of being outdone.” He replied, looking up briefly as he spoke, so he could drink in the way the dinge of hell didn't affect their shine.

“Are you trying to tempt me?” She teased at the compliment.

“Are you feeling tempted?” 

“I feel like that’s enough of that for now,” Beezlebub finally interjected, not upset to play the voyeur, but sincerely busy with work for once, “Dagon, would you please wait in the hallway with our guests until I call you?”

“Of course, My Lord.” She replied with a smile, and kissed Beezlebub briefly before leaving.

Crowley didn’t try to hide the inquisitive look on his face as the demon prince turned to face him once more, but didn’t speak out, knowing that if it was important they would tell him. He figured it wasn't worth getting punished just to ask a question out of turn.

“Playtimes over now, Crowley.” The demon said as she walked behind him and wrapped an arm around his neck. “Somthings come up, but it’s been fun, you should come back again sometime. I like playing with you, and I think with a little bit of work, I’ll have you back where you used to be in no time.” 

She gently applied pressure to his neck and he let her choke him out quickly, despite the obvious fact that he didn’t need to breathe. If she wanted him out cold, it was better to let it happen in a way that wouldn't hurt him, rather than fighting it and forcing her to try different methods. Oxygen deprivations didn’t hurt demons in the slightest; getting their heads smashed into the ground on the other hand, hurt a lot, and that was always her ‘Plan B’ for getting demons to sleep.

He fell backwards into her arms, enjoying the moment of being held, of being so lightly praised, of being told that with work he could be better. She was offering him the chance to earn his pride once more, she was telling him it had been fun, she was growing dark, and quiet, and distant. He didn’t know who was coming, or what that meant for him, but he trusted his demon prince, and he trusted Dagon, and he trusted that nobody in hell would dare challenge his presence in that room, regardless of whether he was conscious or not.


End file.
